


Duality

by afteriwake



Series: Where Speech Ends [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day of Sherlock's fall from the roof Molly starts to see what it will be like to keep Sherlock's secret. When she can't take it anymore she goes to her home and helps try to distract Sherlock (and herself) with music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horrorfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorfangirl/gifts).



> So this fic, and the entire series it is a part of, was written for **horrorfangirl** for the 2015 Summer round of Holmestice. She had very few prompts but wanted songfic and a loss of virginity Sherlolly fic (which will come later in the series), so I ended up making a fanmix of twenty songs (found [here](http://8tracks.com/afteriwake/where-speech-ends) on 8tracks and [here](http://penaltywaltz.tumblr.com/post/122087739478/where-speech-ends-a-sherlolly-fanmix-to) on Tumblr for download) and writing a story for each song. This particular fic was inspired by “Samson” by Regina Spektor. The question used to inspire this story came from the article "[10 Unexpectedly Fun Questions To Ask On A First Date](http://www.hellogiggles.com/questions-to-ask-on-a-first-date/)" by Lisa Lo Paro.

**What things would you save if your apartment were on fire?**

“I can't believe it. I...I simply...” Mrs. Hudson's hands were shaking as she took the handkerchief to her eyes again. “I don't understand. There was no truth to any of it. Why would he...?” 

“I suppose we won't ever know the full truth,” Lestrade said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. There were four of them in the sitting room, four of them who knew Sherlock as well as anyone really could. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were in one corner of the room, John was sitting forlornly in his chair and Molly was busying herself trying to make tea. Four people who were there to mourn the tragic, senseless loss of Sherlock Holmes.

But only three of them thought he was dead. One knew for sure he _wasn't_ actually dead, and it was quite hard to keep that fact to herself in the midst of all of this sadness and misery.

Molly planted her hands on the kitchen counter and shut her eyes. By now Mycroft should have spirited Sherlock away from her office at the morgue and settled him into her home. Mycroft had been evasive on just how he would get Sherlock _into_ her home but she was letting it slide. Right now she had to play her part of grieving friend. Or rather, grieving almost friend. John was the real friend of Sherlock's. She might have been close, but she wasn't sure. So almost friend it was. But playing this role was so bloody hard. She could say one thing, just one sentence. Three little words, and all the pain and sorrow in the room would vanish. Three words and it would all be better.

Three words and she'd muck up the plan, though, whatever the plan was.

She sighed and set about waiting for the tea to be ready. She doubted anyone other than Lestrade might drink it. He might persuade Mrs. Hudson, possibly, but it was doubtful John would bother. John was in a state where he was ignoring all of them, just sitting there so sad and broken. She glanced over and studied him. Three little words and she could fix him, but she had to swallow them down. Not even he could know. It was just between her, Sherlock, Mycroft, the men and women who had helped pull off the charade and whoever else the Holmes brothers deemed fit. The whole world had to think the worst, including John. The whole world had to think him dead, a possible criminal mastermind overcome by guilt. A coward who took his own life. They had to believe the lie and under no circumstances could they know the truth, not now. Not yet.

Finally the tea finished and she poured out the servings. She wasn't sure how Mrs. Hudson took her tea, but she knew Lestrade was just sugar and John was sugar and milk. She decided to be safe and take Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade the actual set so that when Lestrade finally convinced her to drink something it would all be there for her to fix as she wanted. She made John's tea and put the cup on the saucer. She walked carefully to the chair and waited a moment. He looked as though he was looking at a spot on the wall and nothing else. He certainly didn't seem to realize she was there, at the very least. After a moment she set it on the table and moved away, and he didn't say a word.

She put the rest of the cups and saucers on the tray and brought them to the table. Lestrade gave her a nod and turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson, who was hunched over and weeping into the kerchief. Molly stood there a moment and felt as if it was all closing in on her. She couldn't be there anymore. She had to leave, to get fresh air, to be away from all the hurt and pain before she blurted out the thing she knew she couldn't say. She moved to the side, giving Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade a last glance before going and getting her coat. She slipped it on quietly and then made her way to the door. No one tried to stop her, and she was quite thankful for that.

She went outside, taking in the coolness of the early evening, and got her bearings. She needed to go back towards St. Bart's to get home. It might still be a mess, all things considered, so it was best to take the Underground and then walk. She did it in a bit of a daze; she knew all of London fairly well, having lived there for quite some time, and she could make the trip from Baker Street to her home on Montague Street blindfolded, really. Back in the earliest days of her crush she had found all sorts of reasons to be near 221B Baker Street, even if they weren't particularly believable reasons. But she'd made the trek many times and that was a good thing today since her mind was preoccupied with thoughts. It wouldn't do to wander the city aimlessly because she accidentally missed her station, not with the thoughts rattling in her mind. And she'd need to gather her wits about her if she was going to play her part to perfection.

It didn't take long to get home, to use the key to unlock her door. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't been deposited yet. More than likely, though, he'd locked up after himself. The idea of Sherlock being left alone in her home had given her pause, because he would have the opportunity to learn intimate details and use them however he saw fit, but there really was no other choice. Mycroft's home was impossible to use because he was family and he would be under scrutiny, and while the people involved in the switch could be trusted to an extent she could be trusted more, and that had been the deciding factor. Sherlock trusted her most out of those who knew the truth.

She opened the door and saw he'd already made himself at home. Furniture had been rearranged a bit, in a way that allowed him to take a position in front of the telly without being seen from the window. Not that it mattered, though, since the curtains were drawn tight and she wasn't at street level. He was in her chair, knees pulled up to his chest, feet balancing on the edge of the cushion. Someone had thought to get him pyjamas, and his hair appeared to be damp, though it was hard to tell in the dim light. He must have made use of her shower, probably to get rid of the fake blood that had been on his face and in his hair. He appeared to be concentrating on the newscast about his suicide, and she wasn't sure he realized she'd returned until he spoke. “You're out of milk,” he said.

“I'll get some in the morning,” she said, moving to sit on the sofa. She slipped off her shoes and then curled up more by tucking her feet underneath her. “Is word spreading?”

“Yes,” he said. “The plan worked quite well. As far as the world is concerned, Sherlock Holmes is dead.” He turned then to look at her. He appeared to be his usual impassive self, though there was a new element in his dazzling eyes: worry. He was worried. She wondered about that. “How are they taking it?”

“Everyone is heartbroken,” she said quietly. “They don't understand why. They can't fathom how you would jump off a roof like that. But no one believes you're a fraud.”

“Good.” He turned back to the newscast. “If you could, if Mycroft gets my things, could you keep them safe? He knows what it is I would prefer not to replace when this is all over.”

She nodded, even though he wasn't paying attention. “Of course. I can't imagine having to leave everything behind like you're having to.”

“They're just things, really. But they are mine, and if I can avoid having to replace them when this is all done that will be much easier.” Then he paused. “My violin, though...make sure Mycroft offers it to John to keep, if he so chooses. If not, keep it for me, for when I come back.” He said it as if he wasn't entirely convinced he would come back, though, and that worried her. He had to have faith he'd succeed in whatever his plan was, or else there wasn't any point, not really.

“I'll tell him,” she said. They lapsed into silence, and Molly looked around her sitting room. There were so many things she wouldn't be able to live without. Bits of her past pervaded the space in the form of photos and albums, in trinkets and knick-knacks, in art and books. If there was ever a fire she would do her damnedest to keep it all safe, make sure none of it came to harm. She had the memories attached, of course, but there were comfort in the actual things. She was sure Sherlock found comfort in his things as well, even if he didn't say he did. After a time she put her legs back down on the floor and looked at him. “Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “You can place your usual order at Deliverance Ltd. and I'll have what you order when you feel adventurous when I do feel the need to eat something.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And just what would that order be?” she asked curiously.

“The mac & cheese bites, won ton soup and yaki udon is your normal order. When you feel adventurous you order nasi goreng with the extra seasoning pots and a side of crunchy coleslaw. You use all the seasoning pots, sprinkling a bit on the coleslaw as well, which I find very strange but to each their own.” He paused. “Tonight I suggest you add a bottle of whisky. I think I'd like to indulge tonight. I doubt I'll sleep any other way.”

She shook her head as she stood up. He must have looked at her menu or looked thoroughly at the contents of her refrigerator. She could see him going through her rubbish bin as well. Or knowing him, he may have called the company and disguised his voice to find out. That wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. But not finding her bottles of liquor under the sink meant he was off his game a bit. “I'm surprised you didn't find my liquor already. I have whisky. Rum and vodka, too, if you'd rather have those.”

“I'll admit I didn't look too hard,” he said. He looked back at the news report but it was over, replaced by something else, and so he picked up the remote and turned the television off. The room plunged into near darkness, and if she hadn't been so close to her kitchen she may have collided with a piece of rearranged furniture. She flipped the light switch and the glow of the overhead lights greeted her, spilling over to the sitting room a bit. She went to the menu sitting on her counter and picked it up, pulling her mobile out of her pocket and dialing the number. She ordered food from there so frequently she knew the person taking her call by name, and they chatted a bit as she got the order put in for Molly. After a moment's thought she added cigarettes and a lighter; Sherlock smoked, and he probably needed one, and if she had to put up with the stench of cigarette smoke for a few days she could live with it. She hung up and went back into the sitting room, leaving the kitchen light on since Sherlock hadn't turned on the light nearest him. “That isn't my brand.”

“Well, it's the only one they deliver,” she said, sitting down again. There was a light near her but she didn't feel the need to turn it on; if Sherlock wanted dark and quiet she would give him dark and quiet. She tucked her feet under her again and looked at him, studying him. Normally when they were in the same room there was business between them and they had their certain roles: she was the pathologist and he was the consulting detective, and she had information to give him so he could do his job. The few times they'd drifted outside of their roles before today hadn't been comfortable, with the Christmas party looming large in her mind. But that wasn't going to be the case now, if it ever was again. They would need to shift to new roles and new rules if they were going to be any good for each other. She saw him begin to fidget slightly. Something was amiss, she realized. Something was wrong. “What do you need?” she asked after a few minutes.

“I need noise,” he said, looking at her. “I need to drown out the thoughts in my head. I need meaningless noise, and the telly won't do.” She nodded and got up, going to the table where she kept her handbag. She had an iPod in it that she used when she wanted to relax during a break or on the train to and from work. He'd probably prefer classical music but she didn't have any of that. She only had music that spoke to her in some shape or form, something that resonated with her enough that she would use it to escape reality for just a few minutes. She took it to her charging dock and then plugged it in, turning it on. After a moment a piano began to play, sparse chords spaced out. But before the vocals started Molly hesitated. Maybe this particular song wasn't what he needed. But he made a tutting noise when she went to change it and so she moved away as the vocals started.

_You are my sweetest downfall_  
_I loved you first, I loved you first_  
_Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_  
_I have to go, I have to go_  
_Your hair was long when we first met_

“She has an interesting voice,” he said thoughtfully as Molly settled into her seat again. “What is this called?”

“'Samson,'” she said. “It's by Regina Spektor. It's one of my favorite songs of hers.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the song continued. “When I was a child my mother used to tell me stories from the Bible, and the story of Samson and Delilah always stuck with me.”

“He had the strength, correct? That was associated with his hair?”

She nodded. “When she cut it off he was powerless, and then eventually he was killed. The song doesn't really follow the story, but it's got the same symbolism.”

“I see,” he said. They lapsed into silence as the music filled the air, the only sounds in the flat being the piano and a woman's sweet voice. Molly usually sang along with the song because it was quite easy for her to sound as though she could actually sing well when she did, and towards the middle she began to sing softly. It was at the last verse when Sherlock jumped up and moved towards the charging deck and she stopped. He turned it off and then looked at her. “Keep singing.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I'd rather hear you sing,” he said. “Do the last verse.”

She was quiet for a moment, then shifted her sitting position so she was more upright. “Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of Wonder Bread and went right back to bed,” she sang, her voice slightly quiet and shaky.

“Louder,” he said quietly.

She shut her eyes and took a quick breath. “Oh we couldn't bring the columns down, yeah we couldn't destroy a single one,” she said, sounding louder to her own ears but not so loud it ruined the song. “And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once.” She paused where there was the customary pause, and she sensed Sherlock move closer. “You are my sweetest downfall,” she said before opening her eyes and seeing Sherlock in front of her. She looked up at him and then after a quick breath sang “I loved you first.”

He was quiet for a few minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch on forever, but she didn't look away. Finally he nodded and went back to his seat. “Interesting song,” he replied when he finally spoke.

“I suppose it is,” she said with a nod. “It's very sad, though.”

“Most of the best songs are.” Then he waved his hand towards the charging deck. “Turn it back on.”

She got up and turned it on again, ignoring the music playing this time as Regina Spektor repeated what she had just sung. She had thoughts of her own rattling around in her head, and she wanted to be alone with them until the real world intruded in the morning.

–

When Sherlock left her home four days later, she found the iPod was missing, and a note was left in its place. _Mycroft will replace it,_ it said. She smiled slightly, shaking her head and vowing never to mention that she heard “Samson” playing softly every night when he thought she was asleep. If the song meant something to him and her iPod was the only means he had to listen to it, then it wasn't a major loss. Hopefully it would help him in some small way.


End file.
